Tribute
by Trollmela
Summary: Númenor sends an emissary demanding tribute. Maedhros shows him what a son of Fëanor and former High King thinks of that. Set in "Lingering" series


**Tribute**

_Setting: _After 1800 SA, when Númenor started exploiting Middle-earth

_Beta: HaloFin17  
_

_Word count: _739 words

_Note: Set in __**Lingering**__ series. __You do not need to have read the other parts, only know that Maedhros and Maglor are still alive and in Middle-earth. The other parts are: Elder Shadows, Overcoming the Dark, Gathering Clouds and Grief._  


* * *

He looked fey, dangerous, and fair, fulfilling every meaning of his mother's name 'Maitimo'. Whether it was the first time in a long time or only the first time Maglor noticed in years, but there stood his brother as he had been many, many centuries ago when he had stood before them wearing the crown of the High King of the Noldor.

The emissary from Númenor cowered as Maedhros stared him down and demanded in a low, quiet, yet deadly voice:

"You dare demand _tribute_ from me?"

"A tax, sir elf lord, as all people living on Númenor's lands pay."

"This land does not belong to Númenor!" Maedhros shot back, rage barely held in check. It seemed to linger just a finger's breadth behind his tongue, or as a shadow behind his back. "This fortress and its surroundings as far as the river to the east, the peak of the mountains to the west, the spring to the south and the barren lands to the north are mine and my brother's. We took possession of them long before Númenor had even built enough armed ships to cross to Middle-earth! And if there is anyone I owe _taxes_ or _tribute_ to-" And he spat the words as if they were completely foreign and revolting to him- "it would be High King Ereinion Gil-galad of the elves, not some human on a throne in the middle of the sea!"

Maglor thanked Eru that Maedhros had refrained from calling the King of Númenor whatever names had likely lain on his tongue: foolish, arrogant, faithless...

The man steeled himself before replying:

"Númenor has laid claim to these lands now."

Maedhros laughed loudly, his voice filling the chamber. To anyone else but Maglor it would have been incomprehensible how someone was able to put such a mass of emotions into their voice: scorn, distaste, even arrogance, and humour, all the while this amusement held a scathing edge to it meant to cut into the soul of the one at whom it was directed. Their father had been a master at it and bestowed that gift on all of his sons. Their words alone could incite, encourage, or cripple a man.

"I do not care if your king claims all of Middle-earth! But he had better stay out of the affairs of the elves. Evidently Númenor has forgotten its place in this world. Take care that you do not pay for it, for the price will be higher than all those coffers in your treasury."

There again lay a hint of doom, of foretelling in Maedhros' voice, as when they had spoken of Eregion, and Maglor was saddened to know that Elros' legacy would come to a dark end.

The emissary made to speak up again but Maedhros' patience was at its end.

"Get out!" he ordered with a sneer. "Tell your king that he has no right to interfere here, and that if he does not know the history of the First Age, he should look up Maedhros and Maglor Fëanorion before he dares set foot here again or send another messenger."

Displeasure twisted the man's mouth; but Maedhros had instilled fear in him, and thus he left.

Maedhros' hard gaze never strayed from him, even after Himedhel had closed the doors behind the man. The redhead stood tall, unbowed and proud as if he had never known defeat and never would.

Feeling Maglor's eyes on him, he turned to his brother who had not left his seat next to Maedhros' chair.

"What?" he inquired, voice softer now and amiable.

To Maglor, he looked at that moment as if the centuries of weariness, grief, and running had never occurred – as if he had never been wracked with despair and weakness, and he was still the High King of the elves.

"You're only missing your crown, bother," Maglor replied, smiling. He could not help the wave of pride and exaltation rushing through him at witnessing his brother in such a moment of radiance.

Surprise and pleasure flushed Maedhros' cheeks, and he turned away to hide it. But Maglor could see that he enjoyed this rare moment, too, the power and passion running through his veins. The redhead abruptly turned back to his brother and grasped his hands; his eyes were bright, and Maglor found himself basking in the shared warmth of glory. At that moment, Middle-earth in the Second Age did not seem so bad.

* * *

_To those familiar with the Lingering series (or even those who aren't), I usually show Maedhros and Maglor as weaker and more diminished than in the First Age._ _But despite everything they have gone through, and despite their suffering, they are still sons of Feanor, and they have their strong moments. This story is meant to show one of those rare moments._

_**Thank you for reading. Reviews are always welcome.**  
_


End file.
